The Melting Pot
by Mana Angel
Summary: Drabbles, silly and sad. 11] The Name of the Game. Vexen, Saix, and football make poor bedfellows. [Crack Crossover with Eyeshield 21]
1. Experimentation 101: IV, VI, Namine

Sillydrabble. :D I guess I'll keep this open as a general repository for any KH2 crack I come up with.

Today's installment is 150 words, on the nosey!

* * *

1. **Experimentation 101**

"Um," Namine tries.

"Increased heartrate and respiration," Vexen intones. "Sweating, trembling, dilation of the pupil. Conclusion," and here something like satisfaction inches into his otherwise-bland voice, "Subject is afraid."

A snort. "Subject could have just had some very rigorous exercise," Zexion points out. "The symptoms are the same."

"Er," Namine squeaks.

Vexen squints down his not-inconsiderable nose at his erstwhile lab partner. "I haven't seen her leave that chair for the past _half hour_; have you?" He mimes smacking his forehead in exaggerated realization. "Oh, of _course_, she must have jumped up and jogged twenty times around the castle while I _blinked._"

"Nobodies aren't _capable_ of emotion," Zexion interrupts testily, "So she shouldn't be capable of fear either."

"I beg to differ. Fear is an _instinct_, not an emotion, and furthermore--"

Namine whimpers, wondering if either of them are going to get over themselves long enough to peel off the ten-foot python wrapped around her.

...Probably not.


	2. Lean Winter: Sora

It's guess-the-random-fandom-crossover time:D

* * *

**Lean Winter**

Sora's been to all sorts of places, and as necessity dictates, he's also _been_ different things. But he doesn't quite know what to make of this world, or this form (just how is he supposed to hold the Keyblade _now_?).

He especially doesn't know what to make of being trapped underground in the middle of a snowstorm, huddling amongst at least a hundred other trembling bodies for warmth.

The winter makes something in Sora shut down, pulling him relentlessly towards sleep. He can't help but feel that he should put up more of a fight against the encroaching drowsiness (humans don't hibernate, he tells himself, but then again, he's hardly human at the moment), but he's too lethargic to resist.

Besides, it creeps up on him like a favorite blanket-- worn, warm, familiar-- so it isn't really in his heart to reject it, anyway.

Sora isn't used to thinking of the darkness as comforting, but it's the word that comes to mind when he's here, surrounded by the warmth of furry, jostling flanks and twitching noses. If Sora cants his ears up, he can hear snatches of Dandelion keeping some of the more restless leverets entertained with a story. Bigwig and his friend, that lady rabbit whose name he can't remember how to pronounce, are talking in low voices by the warren entrance.

He thinks he hears them mention his name once, but he's too drowsy to care.

There's a shift in the press of bodies against him, and suddenly the Chief is there, fur unruffled even after squirming past so many others. Sora's drowsiness rolls off him like waves on a shore, and he half-staggers to his feet. He remembers what they spoke about last, after all.

The Chief motions him to stay still, already shaking his head. "There hasn't been any news of your friends, or at least not in our warren," he says softly, "There won't be a chance to search for them until the storm passes." He pauses.

"If they're wise, they will stay low. They have nothing to fear from elil, as long as they find a burrow to hide themselves in-- even hombil know better than to wander in weather like this."

There must be something in Sora's face that betrays his worry, because the Chief shakes his head. "Have patience, Sora-roo," he says, with a small flick of the whiskers that Sora instinctively reads as a smile.

Hazel's eyes, however, are distant.

"The storm will end soon."

* * *

My grasp of the book canon is so weak. :P Sorry.

Glossary:

elil is a general term for 'enemies', a.k.a. predators (since they're rabbits)  
hombil is plural for homba, which is a fox. :x  
-roo is a diminutive suffix ('Little Sora', in short)


	3. Ride on, Cowboy: Sora, Donald, Goofy

Done for a request meme I made up on LJ: _Give me an opening/ending line and a series/character, and I'll write you a one-paragraph story._ In this case, the request was Sora in Toy Story, which was a fun concept to play around with.

There's more where this came from; my friend's list requested a lot of KH-related snippets. I'll put up the rest in a bit.

* * *

**Ride on, Cowboy**

_a KH2 crack crossover by Mana Angel_

As always, arriving on a new world is a disorienting experience when the landing goes badly, and it's with a considerable bit of grogginess that Sora and his friends wake up on what appears to be a wooden floor.

They also happen to be very, very small.

They quickly realize that they haven't just shrunk; Sora, for one thing, has a row of buttons studding his waist, and his clothes appear to have fused into one piece. Fascinated, and unable to resist the shiny red button begging to be pressed, Sora pokes it with a finger, watching it depress and-- oh, _sick_-- half-disappear into his stomach.

"Back off!" the static-filled yell, barely recognizable as his voice, rumbles out of a speaker in his chest, making Sora jerk in surprise and nearly deafening Donald-- who squeaks tinnily in outrage.

Squeaks? Sora and Goofy (now a fetching gingham plushie) _stare_ at Donald, who appears to have been turned into a white-and-blue and decidedly unhappy rubber duckie.

Wonderland, they realize then, has absolutely _nothing_ on this world.

And _then_ they meet the toys.

In the end, it turns out they have to go to Andy's next-door neighbor to save 'Woody' and 'Buzz'-- Bo Peep's description of them is clear enough that Sora thinks he'd know them if he saw them.

The problem is that 'next-door', here, translates into 'approximately a million light years away'. It's certainly beginning to _feel_ like it.

Everything feels larger as a toy, and even the Heartless have adapted-- they've already gotten attacked by Heartless _dust bunnies_, of all things. Sora doesn't think he's noticed how much like a toy his keyblade looks until now, but it's changed along with the rest of him, turning into light, flimsy plastic instead of more reassuring metal.

Still, there are worse things than being an action figure. Donald's given up on talking, most of the time; being turned into a rubber duck hasn't been one of his better experiences in Sora's journey, and though it isn't the worst it's still pretty low on the scale. Being unable to talk in anything but squeaks, Sora imagines, isn't really healthy for the ego.

Sora doesn't know if toys can have hearts, but he guesses that they must, if the Heartless are attacking them. Maybe once he saves Woody and Buzz and whoever, he can figure it out. For now, though, it's more important to keep his mind on getting there in the first place-- Sarge's last words still stick to his mind.

There'd been something surreal about having an inch-tall plastic soldier-- green from boot-tip to helmet, no less-- saying something so absolutely serious, but Sora doesn't think he'll ever forget it:

"Good luck, soldier, and remember-- if at first you don't succeed, you _fail_."

---

No dialogue! I LOSE, and that last section is awkward. :( I also didn't know what /else/ Sora yells in battle, so I just used back off. XD And... what happened to the paragraph thing? AUGH.

squids back into hibernation now


	4. Best Consumed Before: Sora, Donald, Goof

More from the request drabble meme, and... still longer than a drabble, unfortunately. This is actually two stories-- Sora's side, then Donald and Goofy's.

* * *

**Best Consumed Before...**

_An exercise in pointless speculation by Mana Angel._

There are always disadvantages with fighting with a certain weapon, and one would think that the risks simply double when said weapon is something that's supposed to be, technically, an extension of one's heart.

Sora's never had to worry about this, of course, since his heart's about as strong as they come, and the durability of his Keyblade corresponds to it. It's cleaved through more Heartless than Sora can count; it's been thrown and swung and spun through ice and water and fire and never showed a scratch for it. It is, as far as experience indicates, indestructible.

Sometimes, though, accidents _will_ happen.

Sora wakes up to a pounding head and a chest that feels like it's been cracked open with a chisel, his last memory Goofy's shield swerving midthrow to suddenly sail at his _head_, and of raising the Keyblade to intercept it. There had been a clang. There had been a clunk. Then there had been horrible, terrible _pain_.

His first thought is:

_Ow._

His second thought is:

_Well, _that_ isn't something I'm doing again._

His third thought is:

_Is there something stuck to my _hand

With an effort, Sora opens his eyes, blinking them rapidly against the light. And stares at the mass of duct tape and twine amalgamating his weapon to his hand.

The first thing Sora says is:

"Guys, what did you _do_ with my _Keyblade_!"

* * *

_The story that goes with the aboveis this; it was the original draft, but then I realized halfway that, uh, not enough Sora, so I left it at this:_

"Maybe he won't notice," Goofy said hopefully, "If we glue it back together."

King Mickey's Captain of the Guards was loyal, friendly, and probably possessed one of the bravest hearts you could ever hope to find in _all_ the worlds, but Donald often had to wonder if his erstwhile best friend wasn't a few sticks short of a bundle, sometimes.

"It's a _Keyblade_, Goofy!" he squawked. "It's not exactly like glue's going to _fix_ it!" He glares. "Besides, this is _your_ fault in the first place!"

Donald felt his irritation fade when Goofy hung his head, clearly contrite. He supposed that wasn't fair; it wasn't as though Goofy _wanted_ to knock Sora out and apparently shatter his Keyblade in half, but there wasn't exactly a _precedent_ for what to do in these situations, either.

"Oh, don't worry. It'll turn out alright. Besides," he huffed, softening a little. "Sora can fix it himself. When he wakes up." _Hopefully, anyway._ Donald paused, his brain choosing this moment to helpfully supply the horrible mental image of Sora trying to beat Heartless down with the grip in one hand and it's divorced blade in the other.

"On second thought... maybe tape could work." 


	5. When Wind Sang: III, IX

The last of the KH2 request meme drabbles. Xaldin, Demyx, and faith. I don't have a good handle on Demyx's personality, so you'll have to forgive me. /

* * *

**When Wind Sang**

_a tentative foray into the world of the Organization by Mana Angel_

Although he's determined to find his place in the Organization in one way or another, Demyx is oddly hesitant to approach Xaldin at first. It can't be the way he looks; compared to Lexaeus and Xigbar, Xaldin seems almost _mild_, and look how friendly _they_ turned out to be.

Perhaps it's simply the odd feeling Demyx gets off the man-- as though he's taken a marker and written 'DO NOT DISTURB' in invisible, indelible ink across his forehead. Xaldin keeps his sentences brief, and his appearances even briefer; Demyx often never knows if he's in the Bastion or not at a given time.

And then, one day, he sees Xaldin whirling on a rooftop, spears spinning around him like crazed clockhands, and Demyx thinks, _he's dancing with the wind._

After that, talking to Xaldin isn't difficult at all and it isn't long before Demyx decides to adopt him as an erstwhile tutor.

The lancer makes, in some ways, a better teacher than Xigbar does, though Demyx doesn't say this aloud. Perhaps it's because wind and water are elements of a more basic nature, and only one state of matter apart-- solid-liquid-gas, the progression goes, and then back again. Demyx can appreciate the advantage being able to bend gravity to your will represents in battle, but the matter of the fact is that he's most comfortable with both feet on the ground.

Besides, he doesn't want to use his music to flatten people into the ground. He wants to make them _dance_.

The day he tells Xaldin this, in the middle of a practice spar, it prompts the lancer to snort so loudly that his lances jitter in the air, his concentration temporarily broken. "I'm teaching you this so that you can _defend_ yourself, Demyx, so that you might actually _succeed_ instead of getting killed on your first mission."

A wave of his hand sets his spears aligned properly once more. "I don't care what _your_ reasons are, but if you think anyone will dance to a Nobody's tune, you're dreaming. You're young now, but you'll learn. We all did."

Xaldin motions for Demyx to do the same, and recall his summons-- the younger man's water creatures have a tendency to collapse when their master's attention is distracted, which is unfortunately often. Instead of obeying the unspoken command, though, Demyx frowns.

"Don't you have any faith in other people at all?" the question comes out tighter than he means it to, and he gnaws at his lip before any more ill-thought inquiries can come out. It seems to him that the Superior's got everyone here dancing to _his_ tune all the time.

Demyx gets the strange feeling that Xaldin can read his thoughts anyway, because the lancer gives him a rare, broad grin, voice hoarse with dark humor.

"Sorry-- I'm just about all out of this thing you call 'faith'."

---  
YAY THIS SUCKS

The idea of Xaldin teaching Demyx the principles of bending water to his will amuses me.


	6. Raising Kings: Ansem, Apprentices

Rough snippet; apologies. :P Strange and botanical too, I've spent too much time at school. Vaguely, tangentially inspired by deja.blue's _Faith_.

**Raising Kings**

_A good king is nothing but a good seed sown in good earth._ This is a lesson you have been taught since childhood, a moral dictum you strove (still strive) to live up to. There has never been any doubt in your mind that Radiant Garden is good earth, so the chance of fault always lay within you: if the king that grew from you is sickly and pale, or crooked and deformed, then all blame falls upon your head.

Fortunately, you turn out alright, even if it still embarrasses you when people tell you that you are a good king, because you know that it isn't quite true: you simply aren't a _bad_ one, and that's a different concept entirely.

Even as time wears on you cannot forget that implication, that a king is only as good as what was there to begin with.

In the end, that is why you decide to take no chances.

Six apprentices, six potential heirs, six equal chances of becoming Radiant Garden's next king. This is the experiment you set up, and these are the variables. You water them with knowledge and take note of how they grow. They begin the course of their lives in a single tray, and with a hand as deft as any gardeners, you keep the soil around them free of weeds.

When their roots begin to entangle, you decide that it is as good a sign as any to separate them into their own pots, directing them along their own fields of study.

Apart, the differences between them become more obvious. There are two that grow apace, in friendly companionship: neither one besting the other, both equally average. There is one that has striven too hard and grown too fast, tall as your shoulder but thinner than a finger-- too weak to support itself, all it will take is one day without water for its length to collapse. Another plant is content to remain close to the earth, spreading its silent vines across the ground; the one beside it becomes prickly, and oddly introverted.

One of them grows tall and strong and radiant, spreading its leaves to the sky, and in its sure lines you can almost read the promise of fruit to be borne.

A successful experiment stipulates the need for uniform treatment, for unbiased observation, but without really realizing it, you cross that line. It's easy enough for men to prefer the things which exhibit the most success, and you're not so inhuman that you aren't susceptible to it yourself. You find yourself spending more time with the healthiest of them, pruning away bad leaves and keeping a sharper eye on his upkeep than any of the others.

You forget that plants cannot be jealous, but boys can.

Without knowing it, you have compromised the experiment.

And when your brightest student looks into your eyes and you see only darkness, you realize you have also forgotten to account for what it is plants need the most, more than air or soil or care:

Light.


	7. Ever After: Vexen

While the first section falls in with canon, the middle two make sense mostly in the context of _Cats in Boxes_, which is this basically kind of insane Vexen/Saix collaboration of death that Luc Court and I have cooked up together. It's not precisely though I'm a poor judge of that, but it's up at this-is-my-stop on LJ, if you'd like to give it a look-- about 11k+ of the story is up, with one more chapter to go.

* * *

**Ever After **

This isn't exactly the afterlife Vexen has been raised to expect. Even if he'd long put any resemblance of a religious affiliation behind him, as a natural part of gravitating towards a more scientific view of the world, he supposes some vestigial part of him still believed in that doctrine. Perhaps not the specific words themselves, but certainly, the idea of _something_ being there after one's demise. Even his experiences and travels as a Nobody--limited as they were-- hardly showed him any different. All worlds believed in something, followed their own myths, came up with their own theories. A tunnel and a light, some worlds murmured. Blessed fields and endless euphoria, whispered others. Searing fire and an eternity of pain, growled a choice few.

He can recite circular arguments and list examples until his face turns blue, but an undeniable fact remains: no world or people that Vexen has ever heard of claimed to have _nothing_ after death, and it is nothingness he finds himself confounded by now. Simple termination would be more comforting that this, but his second death appears to be disinclined to give him even that small mercy. All he has to listen to is the sound of his own mental voice, all he has to occupy himself with is the creak and grind of his own thoughts chasing each other until they fall apart and he must rebuild them.

It's a tiring exercise, but when one has nothing but one's mind left, what else can one _do_?

For lack of any better subject, his thoughts turn to the circumstances of his death with increasing frequency. After all, it was perhaps the clearest memory he can recall-- the searing burst of pain, screaming himself hoarse, dissipating into shadow. His mind traces each event that leads up to it with clinical precision, following every alternate train of thought possible, every other choice that could have been made. The results are less than satisfying.

In the end, Vexen concludes, it never really mattered who he chose to ally with. His death would have been just as pointless. Just as trivial.

Just as _undignified_, and really, that's what rankles the most. It's just as well: he needs the spite to ground himself, to remind himself that he still _exists_. But it's beginning to exhaust him, even if there's no longer a body to be exhausted _with_. His conviction is absolute. If he allows himself to slide, he'll lose even this. As paltry a life as it is, it's still a life. It's still something. Vexen _wants_ to be alive, wants to cling even to the illusion of it; it's the belief that drove his Other forward, what made his Nobody beg to be spared, and it's no different now, now that only the core of what ever made him himself is left. He cannot afford the loss.

Inevitably, one day, Vexen forgets.

And then, there is darkness.

...

There's a voice. There's a touch. There's the resurrection of memory.

It wakes him in fits and starts, and he doesn't realize what has happened until he's staring down into a pair of golden eyes and realizing that he's capable of _seeing_ again.

And... more.

For a time, Vexen remembers what it's like to be real.

And then it's gone, and it almost hurts, until he reminds himself that he doesn't have a heart to hurt _with_.

It's enough to make him almost _glad_ when oblivion swallows him again.

...

He wakes a second time, a little wiser and a little more self-aware, but there are missing links in his head, ideas that do not quite connect, bridges that only span half of the gulf.

In a word, it's frustrating.

It's like being roused from a fever: some things remain clear in his mind, others blurred into a smear of memories. It feels, at times, as though someone's taken a palette to the canvas of his mind,

The hideously artistic metaphor is something Even would have come up with, proof enough that he's falling into mediocrity. Again.

What is _happening_ to him?

He doesn't know.

He never finds out.

...

The third time he wakes up, he is on his back, fields of flowers stretching every way he looks, the sky arching overhead.

Everything _hurts_, and for one moment, he's irritated. In the next, he's sitting up, holding his hands in front of him as if he cannot believe they are there. He almost _can't_, in fact, except that every nerve is telling him, very loudly and agitatedly, that _yes they are_. His shoulders shake, suddenly, and it's _painful_ how his lungs contract like that, but he can't quite choke it down, can't stop the response relief provokes in him.

Vexen laughs, because no one is around to watch, because he does not _know_ what else to do, and because really: when one's just found themselves released from an eternity alone, what else _can_ one _do_?


	8. Suspending Disbelief: X, Namine

One of those random stories where you go 'hmm, let's see what these characters do if we throw them together!'

* * *

**Suspending Disbelief**  
_Luxord and Namine: how stories can be greater than the forces of nature._

X tells the _best_ stories, of ships that never touch the shore and men who hang murdered birds around their neck as penance. Namine thinks that she enjoys these tales half because of the way Luxord tells them, all brimstone and fire and wit, and half because she cannot quite determine whether they are true or false.

Not that it seems to matter. Xigbar claimed gravity for his element long ago, but she knows this enchantment-- this suspension of disbelief, this topsy-turvying of what is real and what is not-- is a far bolder defiance of the laws of the world. For as long as Luxord speaks, she can believe that the stories he tells her are true, wrapped neatly as a herring or a perch in the net of words that only the gambler can weave.

Sometimes the stories make her gasp or frown, putting a hand to her mouth; he whispers to her furtively about the origins of the other members of the Organization, and it's not until he's telling her about Larxene's past life as a dolphin trainer disguised as a whale that she realizes he's_ joking_, and she can laugh-- or try to.

Sometimes, if he's in a particular sort of mood, he'll make stories up about both of them, how she's a princess in a tower and he's her smirking cat, or how they're both pirates on a ship, searching the ends of the earth for treasure. Maybe he's cursed and she's the knight who will save him, wielding her crayons for lances (Imagine, he jokes once, If Xaldin had crayons instead of spears for one day, dancing around him in a blur of color.) and her sketchpad for a shield. At the end of the story, of course, they go home for tea, or they keep on riding through more adventures, or maybe they just decide to rest.

They both know such stories are lies: no one's life ever ends in a happily ever after.

But the attention he gives them is as rapt as her own, as if, between them, they could will them into truth by the sheer power of belief.


	9. Accord: Axel, Namine

Axel/Namine is my hetcrack. Just sayin'.

That, and Larxene/Xigbar. Also poss. Larxene/Demyx.

That has nothing to do with the story, of course. XD

* * *

**Accord**

_Axel and Namine can agree on one thing. Pre-KH2, Post-CoM.  
_

This is the way the world breaks: not with a crash, but a clatter.

Namine hears the box fall to the ground, has a moment to spare pity for the short colored stubs rolling out of its confines and skidding across the floor. If nothing else, she thinks absurdly, they might work to lend this room with some decoration. She has never understood why people seem obsessed with placing her in the middle of white: white dress, white room, white world.

She does not have a heart, but whatever it is left to her aches for the memory of color.

The girl turns her head just enough to see if the crayons have, as predicted, left their smudges of color on the floor; she's disappointed to find that they have not. It's a feeling odd enough to almost make her miss what Axel is saying as his hands clamp hard onto her wrists, spreadeagling her to the table with terrible, animal efficiency.

"Roxas. You're going to help me find him." It's not a request, but a demand.

It's difficult to tell which of them is more surprised when she lets her lips hesitantly twitch into that odd, close-mouthed smile.

"I was going to anyway."


	10. Knight's Move: Pete

**Knight's Move**

_KH2; Pete, and what it means to be a knight._**  
**

You don't betray your king. That's just not something you do. You promise your loyalty and you promise your servitude and you make that oath in blood and sweat and tears, sealed with steel on your shoulders and the iron weight of obligation in your throat. You know this as well as anyone, and you accept it when you take up your sword for the first time. Mickey isn't a hard king to follow.

He's everything a king should be: he's brave and strong and true and when you see him stare out across his kingdom, the night he's crowned, you can see the love he has for this place burning bright and fierce in his eyes. He's everything a king should be--even if he _was_ one of your crew, once, and you don't know when he graduated from a deckhand to nobility, but he did.

He's everything you _wish_ you could be, and in the end, maybe that's why you do it, why you turn on him, why you run as far and fast in the opposite direction of that terrible _nobleness_ as you can. So that you never have to wish to be him again, because you rejected it.

Because you saw it for what it was: the goal you could never reach.

Being a villain isn't so bad, and in a way, you like to think you were born for it. That thought makes it ache less, because you've still got a heart in you, although you guess it's only a matter of time before she or he or _something _tears it out, or maybe you'll take it out yourself, so that all that's left is dullness.

You only hope, wherever he is, that your son is doing better.


	11. The Name of the Game: IV, VII, ES21

Snippets from a crack!idea-- Vexen and Saix in the world of Eyeshield 21. I pair these two together indiscriminately, I'm afraid. My LJ is proof enough!

* * *

**The Name of the Game  
**

Eventually, though whether it was by tacit agreement or simply as something that was inevitable, Vexen and Saix found themselves taking up impromptu residence in the gym's old storage room, where equipment too broken or unfit for use was kept. Throwing a sheet over the piles of torn gym mats helped, but nothing could conceal the unholy stink of several old catcher's mitts, face masks, and jockstraps quietly moldering in the corners of the room, where Vexen had banished them to within the first week of their residence.

First week of a loosely projected six _months_. Luxord had done something with the time, they knew, some bizarre contract and release, casually snapping the fabric of existence as if it were gum. He'd promised that no matter how long they lingered in Tokyo, only a week would ever pass by the clocks of the Castle that Never Was. Vexen wasn't exactly sure that was all **that** desirable a notion, but the Superior had enthusiastically agreed, and that was the end of it.

In exchange, they'd had to give a majority their powers up, at least temporarily, and that meant casually 'persuading' civilians to give them decent accomodations was well-nigh impossible.

On the bright side, when Mamori discovered just where they'd been spending their nights on the first week of school, she'd been duly horrified, promising to put them up in better living spaces as soon as she could arrange it. For now, perhaps, wouldn't they mind staying with other members of the team?

The way Vexen's face blanched must have been some sort of hint, because she laughed and hastily explained that no, there was nothing to worry about; Sena and Yukimitsu had offered. They could only afford to room one extra person each, however, so...

The way Vexen grabbed for Saix's hand might have seemed a bit desperate, but the academic couldn't have cared less.

After a moment of watching the two strange boys shift subtly closer together, drawn to one another like opposite poles of a great cosmic magnet, Mamori smiled, ducking her head in a quick nod.

"I'll see about getting you a hotel room until we can find you something more permanent," she said, and if Vexen's fingers didn't quite loosen around Saix's arm, well, at least his shoulders sagged in relief.

"I fail to see why this much padding is necessary," Vexen complained, plucking at the uniform that hung **far** too loosely on his lanky frame. Saix, behind him, shifted gingerly on the field. The idea of **false** grass was still a relatively fresh concept; the berserker kept expecting it to suddenly give way underfoot.

The blonde man the rest of the players called Hiruma (who'd been the team's captain last year, they were given to understand, captain and **slavedriver**; who also wasn't supposed to be helping the football club this year, technically, but special circumstances had resulted in the administration rushing to mete out special permission) merely grinned at them, the sudden sight of sharp teeth enough to make Vexen pause.

"We're perfecting the Devil Tackle today," Hiruma offered, easily twirling a machine gun around his fingers. "So the injury count's likely gonna be pretty fucking high, without that padding. Just don't want any trouble with your school, y'know, with you being exchange students n'all. Where did you say you were from?"

"Never Was High," Vexen muttered. They hadn't been able to come up with a better name on the fly, and it had stuck.

Hiruma's smile grew sharp as knives. "Welcome to the the Deimon Devil Bats."

Vexen would have responded with a more coherent greeting-- that is, if he hadn't suddenly been tackled from behind. _  
_


End file.
